


Turn Me On, Dead Man

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-31
Updated: 2001-08-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: The Gift post-ep. Death, resurrection, whisky, and sex.





	Turn Me On, Dead Man

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Turn Me On, Dead Man by Halrloprillalar

SPOILERS: "The Gift", S8.  
TITLE: Turn Me On, Dead Man  
AUTHOR: Halrloprillalar ()  
DISTRIBUTION: Archive freely. Email forwarding OK.  
RATING: NC17 for M/M sexual situations.  
SUMMARY: Skinner/Doggett. "The Gift" post-ep. Death, resurrection, whisky, and sex.  
FEEDBACK: Yes, any and all comments welcome.  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine.  
MORE FIC: http://come.to/prillalar  
CLICHE ALERT: Scotch is drunk.  
MANY THANKS TO: Laura, for the fastest (and best) beta in the west.  
July 2001

* * *

TURN ME ON, DEAD MAN  
by Halrloprillalar <>

"You and I both know what happened out there, Agent Doggett. No one else needs to." Skinner stood for a long moment, then left, looking back once at the door.

Doggett sat, staring at the paper in his hands. It was too much to comprehend right now. He supposed he should want to read philosophy or go to Tibet or take up sculpting or some shit. But not right now.

Right now there was a voice beating in his brain. Dead, alive, dead, alive.

He switched off the lights and went into the hall. Dead, dead, dead. His coat billowed behind him as he pulled it on. Alive, alive, alive. He walked quickly to catch Skinner up.

They met at the parkade entrance. The air was chilly. Skinner gave him one of those quarter-smiles. "I'm glad you decided to take my advice."

Doggett nodded. Dead. "Thanks. I owe you." Alive. He opened the door, stepped back to let Skinner pass. Dead. "You wanna stop for a drink?" Alive.

Another look, then a nod. "Where to?"

Where to? Which bar? Dead, alive. Dead. "I have some single malt at my place. I get ESPN." Alive.

"I'll follow you."

In the car, Doggett fumbled with his seat belt. His hands weren't shaking. It clicked, locked.

The lights were green all the way home.

Parking his truck, Doggett saw the paint was getting rough on his front door. Not quite peeling yet. Better fix that Saturday. Better pick up some paint.

Skinner pulled up and Doggett let them in, hanging jackets, tossing Skinner the remote, looking in closets for the Glenmorangie he got for Christmas. The house was warm, stuffy. Doggett opened some windows.

They ended up on the couch, glasses in hand and sports recap on the TV. The volume didn't drown the words in his head, so Doggett tried to dull them with whisky.

"Nice place." Skinner leaned back and stretched a little.

"Thanks." Once I was dead.

Hooking off his glasses, Skinner laid them on the coffee table and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Then he drank. "Good Scotch." Skinner's smile hit the half-way mark, which was probably as far as it ever went. It must be good Scotch indeed.

"From my brother." But now I live.

Skinner looked around the room, didn't quite look at Doggett as he spoke. "You know, you could take a few days--"

"No, I'll be in." Doggett looked right at Skinner, but couldn't catch his eye. The glass felt heavy in his hand. Who suffered, died, and was buried.

Local news came on, a back yard fire out of control burned down a garden shed and a garage, a cyclist killed at an intersection, merchants' donations of stuffed animals to a pediatrics ward. Doggett tipped more whisky into his glass, drank too quickly. Who rose from the dead. Alleluia.

Skinner set down his glass. "I should go."

You shouldn't drive, Doggett almost said, and knew that it wasn't true, that Skinner was perfectly fine to drive. And because he was trying so hard to shut out the blood singing in his ears, and because he'd been drinking on an empty stomach, and because it was time, John Doggett stopped trying not to think about what he'd been not thinking about since the third or fourth time he saw Walter Skinner. It made him catch his breath.

"You shouldn't drive," Doggett said and since he'd been fucking *dead* for Christ's sake and wasn't likely to get to Tibet any time soon, put a firm hand on Skinner's thigh.

There was a thousand year moment while Doggett felt every hard muscle tense beneath his hand and every particle of air turn electric. Skinner looked straight at him, through him, and Doggett began to think being dead wasn't a good enough excuse.

Then Skinner took his jaw, yanked him close, and kissed him.

It was the kind of kiss your mother would have warned you about if she'd been able to bring herself to talk about such things, the kind of kiss that makes you unbuckle your belt and give your body away.

The table pressed into Doggett's knee and his shoulders were twisted. His hands moved over Skinner's shoulders and down his back. Skinner's fingers were curling around his neck, into the small hairs at the nape.

Heat bloomed in Doggett's belly, spreading out along his veins and under his skin. His heart pounded in his throat. His tie was tight, choking. He reached up to loosen it but Skinner pushed his hands away and undid it himself, marking the official moment of no return.

Next thing he knew, Doggett was standing, his cheek rough against Skinner's, trying to open Skinner's shirt while his own was being pulled down his shoulders. Then they were chest to bare chest and Doggett had his hands on Skinner's ass.

It sure beat lying in a shallow grave.

They moved down the hall, stopping once so Doggett could push Skinner up against the bannisters and taste his skin over and over. Then upstairs to the bedroom, condoms, K-Y, and moonlight through the curtains.

The bed could hardly contain them, but they managed. Skinner ran his hands down Doggett's chest. There was no scar. Doggett touched Skinner's belly. There were scars there, though, and the skin was cooler, tighter, hairless. Doggett followed the edges with his tongue and Skinner moved beneath him. Doggett stroked one thigh, and then the other, and took Skinner's cock into his mouth. It was hot, heavy. Doggett sucked until Skinner was fully hard and his own cock jerked in sympathy.

Then Doggett lay back and Skinner fucked him. It was the most believable thing that had happened all week. The sound of flesh on flesh and the smell of bodies at the end of a long day. Doggett opened up and Skinner filling him. Faint light gleaming off the sweat on Skinner's face.

All it had to feel was real and so it did, as real as being fucked in the ass by another man. The bedsprings creaked and Skinner grunted and Doggett's fingers twisted in the sheets. Skinner came, grimacing and biting his lip, hips jolting, hands tightening on Doggett's ankles.

The bed was still for a moment. Skinner took two deep breaths, opened his eyes, and reached down and brought Doggett off. It didn't take long. The light was bright behind Doggett's eyes and the room was spinning and he said something aloud but wasn't ever sure what.

Alive, alive, alive.

For a few minutes, they were together in the dim, side by side, touching at the thigh, at the shoulder. Then Skinner got up to go, didn't ask to shower, just started putting on his clothes.

Doggett wanted him to stay, but he couldn't ask. He lay there on the clammy sheets and watched Skinner dress. Skinner's body was grey in the shadows, bare to the waist, a fucking huge man, bigger than he'd ever looked before. He didn't speak and neither did Doggett. What the hell would they say?

At the door, Skinner turned and looked Doggett in the eye. "I was dead once too." And he was gone.

Doggett waited while the car drove away, then got up to take a piss.

F I N I S

Who else do you think needs to get raised from the dead? Candidates and comments to 

  
Archived: August 25, 2001 


End file.
